Loving Angels
by bohemian-nomad
Summary: Modern Retelling. After the death of her beloved grandfather, Odette feels there is no one loves her except a mysterious angel. But, when her angel kidnaps her, she begins to have second thoughts. Names have been changed for interest. OdetteChristine, etc
1. Papa's Angel

Summary: After the death of her beloved grandfather, Odette feels as if there is no one left to love her; except for a mysterious angel who claims to have been sent by her grandfather. However, on her eighteenth birthday her angel kidnaps her (presumably for voice lessons) and shatters her entire world. Trapped in her angel's secluded mansion, Odette is excluded from the details of her predicament. Confused, disorientated, and shrouded by secrets, Odette must uncover the truth and rebuild her world if she is to ever live her life again.

To add interest (and a twist) all character names have been changed. OdetteChristine

VardenErik, GiselleMeg, etc.

I appreciate all (relevant) criticism. Especially in the grammar department! Please read and review! Thank you!

_**Papa's Angel**_

I broke a glass when I first heard.

"Jesus Christ, Odette," was all my father said as he ran his fingers through his coffee-and-cream hair.

"Clean it up," My mother, said pointedly coming to place a light hand on my father's shoulder. Jerking away he slammed his fist on the shining countertop. The bistre crock, filled with state of the art utensils, responded with a rattle.

"The old fool never wrote down anything important! It's going to be a bloody mess sorting out his affairs."

"Calm down, Matthew, your father died, he's not being sued. We're his only relatives—it shouldn't be that hard to settle his affairs." Grumbling my father stared intently at the oak dining set, all the chairs tucked in neatly.

"We'd better leave now," grimacing, he walked the short distance to the garage door without looking back. My mother turned to look at me, her face blank.

"We'll be at the office for the rest of the evening. Make whatever you like for dinner and be in bed by nine,"

"Mommy?" I interrupted, my lower lip quivering, "Is grandpa really dead?" My mother's hazel eyes stared at me, unseeing.

"Yes." Snapping out of her reverie she quietly gathered her purse and cell phone. "You may spend the night at Giselle's if you wish," I shook my head, more to clear the droplets of tears than answer her suggestion. Nodding my mother started towards the garage, her ebony heels clacking on the slate floor. As her hand reached for the doorknob she turned back for the last time, "And clean up that glass."

I waited until the Jaguar vroomed to life. Until the garage slid shut. Until I was quite sure the car had rounded the corner, speeding away to my parent's law firm. The tears came faster and I buckled, narrowly missing a sparkling shard.

Gone? My dear, dear Papa gone? Forever? I couldn't understand why God would do this to me. Papa had been the only one to care about me. The only one to take pride in me. The only one to love me. God had given me two career-driven, uncaring, unsupportive parents; but he had blessed me with Papa. And now, in one mysterious swoop he had taken him. The tears came harder and harder, smothering my face with salt water. The kitchen became blurry until the whole world seemed part of a dreamscape. My ten-year-old self couldn't understand. I still can't understand.

When the tears had slowed to a trickle and my breathing became rhythmic I began to gather shreds of glass. But a tidal wave of emotion rained down on me and with a gasp, the tears began again; only this time I began to tremble vehemently. At one point my hand was shaking so hard the glass shard between my fingers slipped and sliced my left index finger. Vermillion welled and flowed down my finger in a watery trail. As I watched the blood slide it hit me: how had Papa died? Papa had visited only a week ago and seemed in perfect health: what happened? I finished picking up glass, my mind churning with questions.

The glass residing in the trashcan I made my heavy-footed way up to my bedroom. Flopping on the pink bedspread I promised myself two things that day: one, I would honor Papa's memory by partaking in all the activities we use to do together—namely, singing, dancing, acting, and painting. Second, I would never let this happen to me again. Never.

"What's wrong honey? Are you nervous?" Miss. Margaret asked gently, kneeling so our noses meet. I shook my head, my throat clenching uncomfortably. The other ten-year-old dancers had gathered in a ring around us whispering to one another, their pearly white tulle crackling.

"What's going on? You girls are on in ten minutes." At Mrs. Mary's booming whisper the other dancers scattered to the wings on pointed toes—except for Giselle, who remained on the outskirts, watching with uncertainty.

"Odette's nervous," Miss. Margaret, replied rising to meet her sister, her cherub pink tulle rustling. Biting my lip I tried to make a dam against the tears. This would be my first ballet recital without Papa. I had never had a performance in which he did not attend. And now there would be no flowers of pride at the end. No kiss of congratulations. No hug of support. Nothing. My parents hardly ever came to a recital (unless dropping me off at the door counted) and when they did they always arrived fifteen minutes late and usually couldn't distinguish me from the other dancers. Today, they told me they wouldn't be sneaking in through the side door, since they still had to settle Papa's affairs.

"Buck up Odette. You've done recitals before. Much bigger ones too. Buck up." Mrs. Mary attempted to console me in her robust voice: but they did not understand the situation and therefore could offer no comfort. The tears started to press themselves against the corners of my eyes. I threw my eyes to the ground, knowing Mrs. Mary, Miss. Margaret, and Giselle were all watching.

"Odette?" All four of our heads turned simultaneously to stage right. In the dimness was a young man: his clothes and hair blended into the dark and the stage lights cast a waxy amber across his face. The light caught on the angles of his nose and eyes but left his mouth remarkably untouched. It looked nice, but sad and sweet, with its sanguine corners turning down.

"Who are you?" Snapped Mrs. Mary, obviously annoyed that someone had breeched her backstage security. Her security, however, might have been more effective had it not consisted of her perverted fifteen-year-old son whose ultimate goal was to catch one of the senior ballerinas without her tutu. She still employs him, even to this day.

"I'm Odette's cousin." I stared at his lie. Both my parents were only children—I had no extended family.

"Hmph. Well seating is out front."

"I just came to wish her luck."

"Well you can do that after the performance. She doesn't need any luck right now."

"Mary!" Miss. Margaret interjected; clearly repulsed by her sister's behavior she stepped between the stranger and Mrs. Mary. "Of course you may speak to Odette. She is on in about five minutes though…"

"I'll be quick," the stranger promised. Miss. Margaret nodded and began to gather a huffing Mrs. Mary and a confused Giselle. Now would have been the time to call his bluff. To shout that I had no cousin and please don't leave me with this stranger. But I didn't say anything. I've often wondered what emotion had stayed my voice: was it relief at finally being left alone? Curiosity at this stranger? Fear that my dance instructors and Giselle might get too close and see my real pain? Whatever it was, I watched them leave in silence and the stranger approach.

He was younger than I first thought. Fifteen? Sixteen? Eighteen? But that was only his body: the rest of him looked much older with perfectly pressed pants, a buttoned black blouse, and spit-shined shoes. As he came closer I was able to distinguish a hidden item in his hands: a single yellow rose with an extended stem. Catching me staring at it he offered the rose to me and I took it cautiously, the tears sticking in my throat.

"I know you're probably very confused but I…" at the word 'confused' I lost any self-control I had earlier possessed. Tears broke loose and ran down my cheeks following my watery snot. Confused?! Hell yes! And he was here preaching confusedness to me? Like he knew anything that was going on.

"Who are you?" I gasped trying to control my sobs. What I really wanted to know was what right he had to lecture me.

"Shhh. Its alright." He bent down on one knee to reach up and swipe away the tears. His voice was mellifluous and scrapped by an unknown accent--a calming, pleasing sound: still, I pulled away.

"Who are you?" I asked again, my voice a little more steady. He looked across my face searching for an answer.

"My God. You have his eyes." He even sounded like an adult.

Losing my patience and sanity I took a deep breath and repeated in a shrill voice, "Who are you?!" Blinking out of his dream , he looked at me, his face smooth and divine.

"I'm friend of your grandfather's. He sent me to look after you." My grip tightened on the rose so the skin was almost punctured.

"Like an angel?"

"Sort of," the tears began trickling down my face and he reached up once more to wipe them away—and I let him. It felt good to be comforted by someone who loved me. Could love me. But whoever heard of an angel that didn't love? Besides Papa had sent him to me—this angel had to love me in some way. "I know you're frightened and confused," he began to lecture again and I opened my eyes wide to listen, "but I just want you to know that I'll always be here for you and perhaps in a few years…"

"Odette! You're on!" Mrs. Mary hissed from the mid-stage wing. I looked her way but that was the only acknowledgement I gave: my full attention was on my angel. I swiveled my glance back to him, eager for more details—but all he did was sigh and then rise.

"Go to your performance. I'll be watching. Good luck." With that last sentiment he lightly kissed my forehead and disappeared into the shadowy exit. That was the last time I was to hear his voice.

When I cantered onto stage with the rest of my company, I scanned the crowd for my dark-clothed angel and found him standing in the back, silently watching. To this day he has kept his promise, standing back there, watching me perform pirouettes, solos, and monologues. And before each performance he leaves an unmarred rose on my make-up table. Mostly cadmium, or crimson, or coral. Sometimes an orange one. Once there was a stark white rose resting amongst my foundation and mascara. Whatever the color, he always leaves one to brighten my day. I don't know how I could have made it these last eight years without him. Still, I often wonder at one of the last comments he made to me. Something about something happening in a 'few years'. I've been wondering for eight years about what he was going to say, right before Mrs. Mary interrupted.


	2. When I know his Name

_**When I know his Name**_

My mouth was dry when I woke up. I must have been sleeping with it open again. Smacking my lips together in an attempt to hydrate my mouth I glanced towards the clock on the bedside table: 11:04. I started and rubbing my eyes with a warm fist tried to dispel the awful truth. When the image ceased to vanish I realized I had exactly twenty-six minutes to get up, get ready, and get going to voice lessons with Gary and then a ballet recital.

Tripping out of the navy bedcovers I rushed to the bathroom in order to run a brush through my hair and swish some stinging mouthwash. I looked up into the mirror and deciding there was nothing I could do about the dark ovals under my eyes, I called it good, and sprinted back into the conjoining bedroom. Flapping around like an agitated lunatic I begin stuffing essentials into a black, nylon bag: ballet shoes, rosin, ribbons, an assortment of makeup, and a worn sweatshirt. Convinced I had everything, but not willing to check, I hurried towards the stairs, stumbling over a mound of dirty clothes.

Once downstairs I raced for the cabinet to the left of the sink, praying for the appearance of a granola bar. My prayers dismissed, I settled for a lemon zest soy bar and a quick swig of one percent milk. Mid-gulp from the carton a whap (like that of a slamming door) came from the back half of the living room causing me to sputter. I stopped, every muscle in my body tense: what was that? Minutes dragged past in silence. When my heart resumed beating I decided I was brave enough to investigate. Tiptoeing into the living room in a way that only ballerinas can, I raised my hand in a half-weapon, half-shield position. Rounding the corner I plunged into the room. Quickly I scanned for evidence of the worst and found none. The china and crystal adorned room looked like it always did: orderly and expensive. Not a brass napkin ring out of place. I turned to leave and a shiver slithered up my spine. Someone had left the window open and was letting the balmy June air into the Antarctic-like house. Strange—my parents were much too practical for that kind of blunder. Closing the window I looked outside for abnormalities. Nothing. It must have been one of those freak noises that amounts to nothing. Shrugging it off, I remembered my tight schedule and hurried off to lessons with Gary.

"Hey birthday girl!" Giselle squealed in delight and threw one slight arm around me in embrace. The other held a bushy bouquet of lilies, carnations, baby's breath, and daisies: all presented after the hug.

"Thanks, Giselle," I whispered putting my nose to the flowers. I was slightly miffed: my best friend had remembered my birthday when even I hadn't.

"So," she drawled, sticking her arm through mine and leading me towards the makeup room, "are you excited about tonight?"

"Considering I just remembered, yes. I'm incredibly excited!"

"You forgot our plans?" She pulled us to a stop in the middle of the black and white checkered corridor of backstage. The other dancers brushed past, hurrying to and from the makeup and dressing rooms.

"I forgot my birthday."

"Oh Odette! You silly goose! How could you forget your own birthday?"

"It's easy. Especially when you wake up late to an empty house."

"Business?" Giselle intoned with a grimace. Because I could not loathe my parents (you can't hate family, it's just not socially suitable) Giselle did it for me. When we were younger she use to invite me over for slumber parties nearly every weekend—to the point where I acquired my own spot at the Ballo dinner table. Now that we were older it had extended to events like birthdays and New Years Eve. "Well forget about that, because we are going to have the greatest time tonight!"

"Thanks, Giselle," I hugged her tight as we headed to the makeup room.

The bright room had emptied to leave only the senior ballerinas and a few lazy ones. Young dancers (or any young performer for that matter) have an extreme fear of missing their cue and are always the first ones ready. But a few years of performances usually conditioned them to realize that you really only needed half-an-hour before curtain to get ready. As long as it was general makeup and costume—specialty makeup was an entirely different story. So, as a result, Giselle and I were able to take our usual spots at the end of the U-shaped counters, across from the door. It was here I found the rose.

It was always here. The only thing that ever differed was the color. Today's rose was a deep scarlet with a shortened stem and protruding thorns. It was a thing of beauty amongst the containers of cover-up and eye shadow. I fingered the velvet delicately before raising it gently to my nose. The warm fragrance danced around my nostrils. I could feel Giselle watching me.

"Are you ever going to tell us who your secret admirer is?" Nastasia, the only dancer who had been here as long as Giselle and I, brushed airily past to grab a stray container of hazelnut concealer.

"You'll know when I do." I teased, setting the rose down on the counter. It was a half-truth: I'd only tell when I knew more about him. Like a name. For now, I couldn't risk non-believers who might have me committed (this almost happened in middle school. I had told a nosy dancer about my angel and she reported me to Mrs. Mary. Well, utilizing my sharp fourteen-year-old wits I told Mrs. Mary that I had made the entire story up to scare Lisa. She believed me. Unfortunately her belief meant a fifteen-minute lecture on appropriate conduct behind stage). Besides, it was kind of nice having an angel all to yourself.

Nastasia smiled and retreated to the other side where lighting was better. I turned to start applying the gelatinous goo that is stage makeup, waiting for Giselle…

"Are you ever going to tell anyone about this guy who leaves you roses?" I continued smearing the peach across the bridge of my nose.

"Why? It's really no one else's business."

"I know. But you know how I feel. It's a little eerie to be receiving a rose every performance from a man who posed as your cousin eight years ago. I just don't want you to get hurt." I looked at her, my eyes stinging. I had heard this speech over a dozen times in the last eight years and after all these years it still got me.

"Giselle, you're my best friend. But trust me on this: he's not threatening. He's never tried to contact me outside of this rose. There's nothing to worry about."

Darkness was the only thing that kissed me when I got home after the recital. A quick analysis of the answering machine and I was able to determine that my parents had to stay after and prep for their case tomorrow. But I was free to have whatever I wanted for dinner. No apology. No excuse. Not even a 'Happy Birthday'. My parent's were ridiculous in the thought that they could replace affection with freedom.

Sighing heavily, I began to trudge towards the stairs. Before I reached them though, a square of white on the floor before the door caught my attention. Odd--usually the mailman put the mail in the mailbox by the driveway. Curious, I padded over and picked up the envelope. In sharp cursive, my name had been written in dark ink—a vibrant contrast to the stark white of the envelope. Flipping the card I searched for a return address. The absence of one made me even more curious. The hall clock began to sing eight tinging chords and I was reminded of the forty-five minutes I had to shower and meet Giselle at her house. I decided to save the contents of the letter for the wait between a just-turned-on shower and a warm, steamy one.

In my room I threw the gym bag into the corner by the door, where it would take up residence until Monday afternoon. I proceeded to the shower, lightly grasping the envelope. It had to be from someone I know intimately: someone comfortable enough to walk up and shove a letter under my door. I wondered if it was my ex-boyfriend Mikey. Maybe he still had feelings for me. Although, I don't think I could have feelings for someone who insisted I spent too much time dancing and singing. (That was the cause of our breakup. He said I loved my "extra-curricular activities" more than him.)

In the bathroom, I twisted the knob of the shower slowly to the left, teasing my curiosity. At last, satisfied that the handle was in the right position, I leaned against the marble counter and ripped the envelope's seam. Unfolding a tissue-thin piece of stationary I started with the words, "Dearest Odette,"

_Dearest Odette,_

_I'm afraid I know of no tactful way in which to explain what I must say. So I will try to convey this message in the only way I know how. _

_I must speak with you privately. It concerns a matter dearest to you and it would be to your benefit alone to speak with me. Please do not be alarmed. I can imagine how strange this must sound to you. But I mean you no harm in any form. Please, trust me. Your grandfather would've wanted this._

_Please, meet me tonight at ten o'clock, at the little coffee house on the corner of third and Hamilton. We have much to discuss._

_Sincerely,_

_Your Angel_


	3. Happy Eighteenth

_Please give honest opinions about this chapter. I'm not quite sure I like its outcome and would greatly appreciate a different view. Thank you! P.S. Odette Christine, GiselleMeg, see if you can guess the rest! -bn-_

_**Happy Eighteenth**_

I have never drowned before, but I'm pretty sure this is what it feels like. My lungs were being pressed in on all sides by an invisible force and my mouth had nothing more to contribute than an open gap. My heart was beginning to slow down. Soon it would stop.

What? What was this? He wanted to meet? Face to face? Something wasn't quite right. He's an angel, shouldn't his message be a little more elegant? Shouldn't it be a little less creepy? My heart started beating again. It didn't mean the end of my panic.

Maybe it was some kind of test. A lets-see-if-you-really-trust-me sort of thing. Swallowing dryly I noticed the steam beginning to gather in the upper corners of the bathroom mirror. Okay, okay. Just calm down, I reminded myself. Take a shower and figure out the rest when the time comes. Jump the puddle when you come to it. Right?

I took a fast shower and was even faster getting dressed. Which is actually harder than it sounds. For some reason it looked as if over half my clothes were gone. All that was left was a couple of shirts I hadn't worn since freshman year and two pairs of jeans that were unflatteringly stretched out. Chalking it up to one of my mother's occasional OCD bouts (once she threw away all the food in the refrigerator and spent two hours scrubbing it clean) I quickly grabbed the less offensive pants and a yellow t-shirt advertising a band from three years ago. I couldn't risk standing still for too long---it meant exposure. I felt as if my angel (seemingly tangible and therefore alarming) was watching, waiting to strike. I wasn't deathly, I'm-gonna-call-the-police frightened, just freaked out. I mean, my angel, whom I haven't spoken to in eight years suddenly wants to go have coffee? At ten o'clock postmeridian. That's a little dark for a being of light. It just didn't make sense. If he was really an angel with a message, couldn't he just pop into a dream or something? This vile note meant he wasn't an angel—so what was he? I resolved to spend the rest of the night close to Giselle.

"They say this is the greatest of all the Tom Mann movies!"

"Uh huh,"

"Joey and Amanda saw it last week and they said they couldn't stop laughing,"

"Yeah, laughing, that's good," I mumbled, unseeingly watching the concession menu for a sudden change in gummy bear prices. Lightly grasping my upper arm, Giselle stopped the procession of the popcorn line. The guy behind us grunted at the unexpected halt.

"Are you okay? You've been acting frazzled all night."

"I'm just a little tired from the recital," Giselle looked at me, her doe-blue eyes searching for evidence of the contrary. Unable to call my bluff, she squeezed my arm warmly and turned her attention back to deciding between malted milk balls and lemon sours. That was one thing I loved about Giselle: she had the perfect amount of nosiness. If something seemed wrong she asked about it once, and if you told her it was nothing she closed the door (unless it seemed to be a recurrent problem). But she always left it cracked, in case you wanted to come out and talk.

By the time we got to the front of the line, Giselle had decided on lemon sours and I had decided the note was a figment of my dejected mind. My fright at its incomprehensible strangeness should really be amusement. Look how far my imagination can ride me! My angel wants to meet for coffee, oh, that's a good one! Too bad I wasn't laughing.

We paid and headed towards theater nine with our sugary loot. For all the sugar and grease Giselle inhales it still surprises me how slight she is. Giselle is what we jokingly call Degas' wildest dream: slender limbs, a nearly non-existent waist, itsy-bitsy feet, and all but twenty-four inches of the silkiest, straightest flaxen hair in the entire city. She is the ideal ballerina. It must be genetic—Mrs. Ballo, even after five kids, is still smaller than her daughter. I owe a lot to Mrs. Ballo, who should've just adopted me years ago and gotten a tax deduct. It's because of her that I still dance.

When I was ten my parents told me I would have to give up either voice or ballet lessons because my schedule was too hectic for them to keep up with (what that really means, is they were tried of driving me to and from what they thought of as worthless lessons). It was the hardest decision I almost had to make. Singing was something Papa and I had always done together: to continue to better myself was the key to connecting with him through time. But I loved dancing. I had ever since Papa had signed me up for ballet classes when I was five. He said my grandmother—whose name and (apparently) appearance I share—had been a famous ballerina in the École Français and I could too one day. Well, luckily for me, all my complaining and crying started to worry Giselle who told her mother, who told my mother, that she would be happy to take me to and from ballet class, as she had to take Giselle anyway. Thus I was saved from the excruciating pain of decision. But as much as I love the Ballo's and how grateful I am to them, they can never replace what Papa and I had. He knew that too, and presumably sent an angel.

Which is why, eight years later, I am sitting in a darkened movie theater nervously chewing a mouthful of gummy bears. I shouldn't be nervous. The movie ends at eleven-thirty and I'm spending the rest of the night at Giselle's. The deadline will come and go mid-way through Tom Mann escaping from a dirt-floored, rat-infested lair. But then what? What happens tomorrow? Or the next day? Or the next? Will he track me down? Maybe I should have gone—just to see what he wanted. After all, a coffee house is somewhat public. If things had gotten bad I could've applied to the wait staff for help. I twitched in my seat, realizing how much I screwed up.

I'm pretty good at absorbing myself in whatever I'm doing. I suppose all performers have to be. I am so good though, that by the time Tom Mann received his secret assignment via a hollow pear, my worry had been relayed to the movie. I was so engrossed in Tom Mann's problems, that it took me several minutes to realize someone had taken the empty seat next to me. Judging from the light produced by an oil tanker explosion, he was of average height, dressed in black, and watching the movie with a grim face. He was unaccompanied. Latecomer? No, if he was that late he could've just waited for the next show in fifteen minutes. Perhaps he mixed up the rows coming back from the bathroom. Coughing softly, I shifted towards Giselle to let him know he was not welcome. I thought I heard him chuckle in response. Biting my tongue sharply I settled down into the seat, claiming my territory. I hate sitting next to strangers I can't see. Several minutes walked by my puckered face and stopped to gape.

I was in the middle of debating between asking him (in feigned sweetness) if he could pretty please move up one row or dramatically standing up and moving to the other side of Giselle when suddenly, he leaned in,

"Odette, you didn't do as I told you," Gasping, I quickly pulled my hand up to seal off my mouth: I was afraid of what might spill out. His voice had changed. It was still mellifluous but it had taken a deeper and more passionate tone. My worst fears had become certainty: my angel wasn't what I once knew. Keeping my eyes locked on Tom Mann's perfectly styled blond hair, I tried to convince myself that my dejected mind was playing tricks again.

He tilted towards me once more, his voice low, "Now look how messy you've made this. Come with me." Without another word he slid his tepid hand into the crook of mine and stood up. My mind reeled, like it was playing pin the tail on the donkey in the mist. But I followed anyway, rising when he did and starting down the aisle. His voice—the cause of my trepidation—now acted as a honeyed enchantment. It wove itself around and around my being until I was cocooned. His spell could've gotten me to declare a love for bubble-gum pop.

"Where are you going?" Giselle's mezzo-soprano voice broke through his thick spell. I looked at her, my breathing rate up,

"I'm going with…" I turned to indicate the quasi-angel and found no one. Was I going crazy? I had to find out. "I'm going to the bathroom." Quickly lying, I snatched my purse from under the seat and proceeded towards the nearest exit.

"Hurry up. You're going to miss the best part!" Smiling at my best friend, I disappeared into the darkness.

Outside of the theater I blinked sheepishly in the bright light, trying to reorient myself. There wasn't even time to do that before someone had hold of my elbow. I should've run. I should've screamed. I should've at least said 'no'. All the things they taught you in elementary school about not going with strangers seemed to have fallen out of my brain.

Zigzagging through the Friday night movie crowd he clutched my arm tightly, probably fearing my escape. Which might have been probable if I wasn't so baffled. Making our way to a side exit we burst into the clement June night. The stars played hide-and-seek behind wispy, grey clouds while a mothering moon kept watch. The wind flowed by, barely brushed my bare arms. It felt nice—cool and distant. By the looks of it, there was nothing at all peculiar about my eighteenth birthday. Except for the dark, 5'11 man escorting me towards the scarcely illuminated back parking lot of Ridgewood Cinema 26.

My breathing, up until now, had been very controlled and regular. But as we began to approach a black sports car tucked away in the corner of the parking lot, it became like an agitated dwarf: short and huffy. Perhaps sensing my sudden anxiety, the grip on my elbow lessened. Upon reaching the jet-black car he steered me to the passengers side and (still holding on) gallantly opened the door for me. I stood there, looking at the dark interior, wondering how long I could delay my entrance into the cave. He gave me four seconds to maintain my dignity and get in, before firmly shoving me in. As I looked dead ahead over the leather dashboard, there was an audible click near my right shoulder. Starting, I twisted my head quickly to the right, and watched him extract the key from the passenger door. I was inexplicably outraged. How dare he abduct me and lock me in!

My irritation dissolved as he smoothly slid into the seat next to me and brought the vehicle to a purr. Without even a sound he pulled the car into gear and sped off into the night.


	4. Cornfields

_Just a heads up: chapter 3 has been added onto if you would like to re-read it. Hope you enjoy!_

_-bn-_

0-0-0-0-0

We drove in silence. I was too petrified to say anything and he all but ignored me. So I just stared straight ahead, watching the lighted city streets give way to a darkened highway. It wasn't until we exited onto a country road and passed a cornfield that I realized he was taking me far, far away.

"Where are you taking me?" Panic shot from my stomach to my throat, burning my esophagus. This was starting to get serious. I'm not sure what I thought he was doing. But I didn't think it was abduction.

"If you had done as I asked, you would know," he replied coolly. I bit my lip and continued looking straight ahead.

Except for that one (tense) exchange, the car was completely noiseless. The pressure generated from the silence was enough to suffocate an elephant. He must have felt it too, because around eleven-forty (we'd been in the car for thirty-eight minutes) he reached over and jabbed a button on the CD player. The world's greatest opera and Broadway singers came center stage through the speakers. The first song was "Habanera" from _Carmen_. Next was "Un bel di" from _Madama Butterfly_. So you can imagine my surprise when suddenly "Defying Gravity" burst through. I started biting my nails, trying to keep from singing along. Giselle and I had gone last year to see _Wicked_—for my birthday. My bad habit now served a new purpose: tear-preventer.

Around one in the morning, when the cornfields just kept coming, I ventured another question, "What's going on?"

"Again, if you had done as I asked, you would know."

"So you're just going to drive me to the middle of nowhere?" My voice was barely audible over Christine Daae's.

"Now what would be the point of that?"

"I don't know! That's why I'm asking you!" He laughed. I however, did not find it amusing. Silence, lingering on the edges, encroached once more. I shifted in my seat. Was he going to tell me anything? Five noiseless minutes seemed to indicate a no. Pouting, I rested my head against the window. The telephone lines formed an endless, hypnotic string, against the cornfield backdrop. (I want to know what market was buying so much corn.) I fluttered my eyelids afraid they would stick close. One thing was for sure; if we didn't get where we were going soon I was going to fall asleep. And that's the last thing I wanted do in a car with a mysterious, quasi-angel.

Presently, two yellowed stars appeared on the crumbling, asphalt horizon behind us. Within minutes they had enlarged to the size of saucers. It was a complete shock to the system: up until then we had been the only light on the road. I watched their progress in the side mirror. By the time they reached salad bowl dimension, my subjugator had also taken an interest in them.

"Bordel! Comment nous ont-ils trouvé1?" French? He spoke French? His accent was funny though, and he talked much faster than my high school French teacher. 'Bordel' was a word completely lost on me. But the last part meant something along the lines of 'how they find us'.

"Que2?" I questioned, looking behind.

"What did you say?" I glanced over and my heart skipped two beats. Dangerously puzzled, his dark eyebrows pulled sharply down as did the corners of his slightly opened mouth. I shook my head side to side; eyes wide and lips squeezed. Growling, he turned to look behind. The car was even closer. I resolved to remain inconspicuous as his foot pressed against the yielding accelerator.

We drove like this (the orange speedometer needle sliding on top of and over 97 mph) for another three minutes before he suddenly jerked the steering wheel right. The ebony hood dipped down a hill to kiss the stalks of corn. Shrieking, I grabbed for the dashboard as if to stop the car. With or without my help it halted several rows into the field. The haloed headlights illuminating the tall stalks quickly disappeared.

The only sound in the car was my panting. Even the crickets in the field weren't speaking. Terrified I lolled my head to the side. His body was twisted to the side looking up the small mound at the black road. I watched him watching. At last the slow creak of tires and a beam of yellowed light broke our vigil. It had to be the car that was 'following' us. It was now creeping along the road, searching. My captor stiffened at their approach. His reaction connected a receptor in my brain: he was afraid of that car. Ergo, his enemies were my friends. Not impulsive enough to make a break for it I glanced to the side and noted the locked door. I switched my eyes back to him: he was still watching the car slide by. With eyes locked on him, I very, very carefully eased the pin-shaped lock up. Before it reached the top I shifted in my seat to disguise the soft pop. Holding my breath, I released it when the pop came and went without recognition. Now, to formulate a plan beyond run like hell. The car was angled so the driver's side faced the road. Running around the car would mean immediate capture. But…if I ran into the cornfield and circled back, perhaps I could slip past. Whatever my plan was, I had to act quickly; the foreign car had already passed and his attention would soon be on me. So I couldn't talk myself out of it, I sharply opened the door and ran like hell.

I didn't make it very far. I had just torn into the first few feet of the stalks when the car door slammed. I ran faster but it didn't seem to make a difference. My legs were either too slow or his were too fast. For soon, his arm was snaked around my waist, pulling me up. Screaming, I thrashed around, trying to break his hold. Or at least hit something.

"Stop it right now! I don't want to do this to you Odette," I yelled harder. "Goddamn you." His curse stopped me—for a beat—and I prepared to scream even louder. A rag against the lower half of my face cut me short though. Twisting my head I tried to get away, but it clung on. One sniff made my nose burn and recoil from the sickly-sweet smell—like cheap shampoo. Okay, all I had too do was not breath. That plan only worked out for a minute at most. There was that odor again. I think I was going to throw-up. My brain was getting cobwebby. Spiders were rapidly building webs in my brain. It made it hard to see and think and move. I threw my eyes up one last time to see the stars faintly gleaming: like someone had thrown a handful of glitter on a piece of black construction paper. And then, everything was black.

1 _Bordel! Comment nous ont-ils trouv_é?: _Damn it! How did they find us?_

2 _Que?: What?_


	5. Prentiss

_**Prentiss**_

The first thing I saw was a white ceiling. It swirled above, making my eyes dizzy. I closed my eyes, trying to clear the pressure gathering behind them. It was in this self-created darkness that snippets of last night came back to me. Oh my God. My eyes snapped opened to see buttery light soaking up on the cream carpet. Morning? But what morning? How long had I been out? A day? A week? A year? Was I dead? I sat up on my elbows and looked around. I was in the middle of a king-sized bed loaded with soft down comforters and pillows and silky linen sheets. They were all white. It made my headache worse.

Ahead of me, beyond two mahogany bedposts was a dainty white vanity with stool and mirror. To the right a window admitted thick, heavy slices of sun. And right where the beams fell was a dark, round table. Despite a silk table runner and a vase filled to the brim with roses, it reminded me of Madame Zambezi's tarot table at the state fair. Twisting to the left revealed what could possibly be a bathroom—judging from the tiled floor and porcelain fixtures. At the sight of that room it felt like someone punched my bladder. I shouldn't have drunk that extra-large Coke last night. Clawing my way out of the blankets I ran into the bathroom and slamming the door, sat down to pee. Good thing it was a bathroom after all.

As the pee hissed out I examined my surroundings. I could've been in a five-star hotel for all I knew: marble countertops, porcelain fixtures, clawfoot bathtubs. It didn't feel like a hotel though. For one, it was spacious. Two, it was cold. Like no one had been here for a very, very long time.

While drying my hands on the fluffy, white towels I heard a creak from the adjoining room. "Hello?" An equally creaky voice called. I froze—like a dieter with a slice of chocolate cake. Who was that? And what did they want with me? I looked around desperately: unfortunately there was no shelter from whoever decided to come through the bathroom door. "Hello?" The voice was so close I could hear the crackle. Clutching the towel I stared at the door with wide eyes. "Miss. Aster?" Three soft raps on the door, echoed in the tile prison. I made no response. "Are you in there, Miss. Aster? Please, don't be frightened. If you'll open the door you'll see that I am only an old, weathered man incapable of doing you any harm." There was something soothing about his creaky voice—something grandfatherly. I couldn't deny his request: especially since it sounded like he might have a piece of hard candy for me.

I crept towards the door on light feet and slowly took the doorknob in my hand. Cautiously I opened the door, making sure to keep most of my body behind it while my head poked itself out. There in front of me was a willow tree. The man was of average height and slight, lithe build. His fingers and knuckles were knobby as were his nose and boxy ears. His closely shaven hair looked like tree bark: whether from the different shades of black, brown, and silver or the texture, I couldn't figure it out.

Smiling softly at my appearance, he revealed a row of teeth the color of new wood, "Good Morning, Miss. Aster."

"Good Morning," I replied with a gulp. His smile widened at my nervousness.

"If you are hungry, as I suspect you are, I have brought you up a little breakfast," the man twisted his willowy body to indicate a tray of food on the fortune-tellers table.

"Oh. Thank you," I stammered, unsure of what to do next. This old man, despite his countenance and courtesies, could still be dangerous. After all, he was apparently in on the plot to kidnap me.

"You're most welcome my dear. And if you would like to come out and eat I will explain my alterative motive for disturbing you." Blinking rapidly at his scholarly speech I did as he commanded and came out of the bathroom. Like a park ranger to a frightened doe he respectfully stepped back into the doorframe of the exit and let me cross to the other side of the bed where the food was. And like a doe I airily breezed by to take a seat in front of the plated silver tray. A medley of scents invaded my nose: greasy bacon, filmy eggs, squished oranges, steaming pancakes, crispy hash browns, and creamy milk. I had never seen so many carbs in all my life! This meal was a ballerina's worse nightmare. It wasn't going to stop me from eating my share though.

"I wasn't sure how you liked your eggs so I made scrambled, fried, and sunny-side up." I glanced up to catch him staring at me intently: a look hungering to please craved into his face.

"Thank you very much. Any style of egg is fine with me."

"But which is your favorite?" He queried with the raise of a wiry eyebrow. "I would like to know for when I make your breakfast in the future." His last words made me start. The future? So they expected me here for a while. What kind of kidnapping job was this? Ransom? Revenge? My parents had put away a few murky characters in the past. Perhaps this was the retribution: the loss of their only child. If they had done their research better, they would know it wasn't that great of a punishment to my parents. Enough with the motive, I had to find out what was going to happen to me.

"And how long am I staying?" The old man looked at me strangely: like large scaly bugs were crawling on my face.

"Why, until you've…" Approaching me he stopped short and seemed to suddenly comprehend something vital. "He didn't tell you, did he?"

"Who? The man from last night?"

"He's ridiculously stubborn sometimes. I think it comes from having only me as company."

"Who? I don't understand."

"Oh," exhaling, he sat down in the vacant chair and took my hand in his wrinkly one and stroked it in a way that only grandparents can do, "my poor dear. I apologize for his behavior. And I apologize for not being able to tell you what it is you want to know. But this is something you must hear from him." I turned my head to look out the window. There was a tree nearby; its jade leaves formed an umbrella. Interesting as it was, it didn't give any answers.

"I suspect this is his explanation." I looked back to see him holding up a creamy envelope: my name scrawled across in black ink. Gingerly I took the letter and held it between my fingers. Should I open it? What would _his_ explanation be? And would it be from a man or an angel? "Well my dear, I think I should leave you." My eyes flicked up to see him standing next to the table, a pitying look embedded in his chocolate eyes. "If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to come and find me. I am usually in the kitchen—go down the stairs, go left, and it's the set of swinging doors—or the garden which can be accessed through the kitchen. I'll see you at lunch." And with a kindly smile he started to exit. There was one thing I was curious about, that I knew he could answer:

"Wait! What is your name?"

"Oh! How silly of me! To forget such a thing! My name is Prentiss dear."

"It is very nice to meet you. I'm Odette." I responded sincerely. I had grown rather fond of his friendly, willowy demeanor.

"Oh I know who you are my dear. You will find that you are quite popular around here."

"What?" All he did was wink and disappear, which made me think he didn't hear. So all that I was left with was a strange phrase, a mysterious letter, and three types of eggs.


	6. Escape Toast

Seeing as my stomach wouldn't be quiet, I decided to eat then read the letter. It was a simple plan that became complicated when I realized that I had been brought a meal that could feed three musical-sized casts. I only managed to eat a third of the eggs, some toast, all of the orange juice, a sip of milk, two bites of pancakes, and a strip of bacon before my stomach was ready to push the contents back the way they came.

I admit, I was a little nervous to open the letter. Inside was my future. My fate. My sentence. And at the moment, there was nothing I could do about it. But I was burning with curiosity. Did this have something to do with my parents? Was it some sick plot ten years in the making? (Step one: pose as an angel to enemy's daughter. Step two: get her to trust you. Step three: kidnap her. Step four…). Or was it something quite different? Tired with not knowing I slit open the top of the envelope and pulled out a familiar piece of thin stationary and read the familiar sharp lettering:

_19 June 2007_

_Odette,_

_I apologize for last night's rough encounter. That was not how I planned our second meeting. I know you must be frightened but you have nothing to fear from me. With that said, we must move forward. I have been commissioned to train your voice. Lessons begin at ten and will adjourn at twelve for lunch and then resume at two until five. Please meet me in the music room (down the stairs and the first door on the left). You are excused from this morning's lesson, but I expect you to be in the music room at two o'clock sharp. I will not tolerate tardiness. _

_Sincerely, _

_Your Angel_

_P.S. Please remain in your rooms until it is time for your lesson._

I gaped in disbelief. This was not what I was expecting at all. First things first: everything that happened to me had happened within a day (according to the letter's date). Secondly, what was this 'commissioned' crap? Who would pay this guy to kidnap me in order to give me voice lessons? Can you get any more bizarre? And his tone—he acted like he was the ring and I was Sméagol! "I will not tolerate tardiness". Yes master. No tardiness for Sméagol. Oh no. No tardiness for Sméagol. And five hours of lessons! What was the goal here? For me to die of exhaustion?

Outraged I threw the letter down and jumped out of my seat. Outrage isn't what I should be feeling. I should be panicking, wondering how I was going to get home. Or wondering what the real story was. But outrage is what I felt so I paced the room while at the same time exploring it. Along the wall the bed rested against was a door that lead to a closet. This wouldn't be any great discovery, except that it was fully furnished: with my clothes! Last night's empty closet suddenly made sense. This kidnapping job was more extensive than I thought. I wasn't sure whether to be comforted by the appearance of my clothes or freaked out.

Either way I decided to change from last night's unbecoming attire. (Thank goodness I was still in last night's clothes and not something else)! Looking up and down the rows of clothing I choose my comfort outfit: jeans that fitted nice and a plain, navy shirt. Classic looking, it always gave me confidence: and I had a feeling that's what I'm going to need.

The next thing I needed was a clock: which I found on a bedside table near the bathroom. Eleven nineteen. I had roughly three hours before I was expected at these 'music lessons'. Again, who in the name of Chopin commissioned him to teach me to sing? I've take voice lessons for over eight years now; who suddenly decided that that wasn't good enough? As great a mystery as that was, I wasn't planning on sticking around long enough to find out.

Three hours…that would give me a good head start if I left now. Frantically I looked around for anything that might be useful in my escape. I settled on a couple of pieces of toast from this morning's breakfast; wrapped in a napkin and stuffed in my pocket. Anything else? The highly decorative ornaments of the room seemed to suggest a 'no'. With that I made towards the door across from the bed and exited right into another room.

I felt like Alice; but instead of Wonderland I had fallen right into Regency England. A drawing room, it was decorated with priceless knickknacks and side tables. A light colored couch faced me, inviting me to sit and relax in front of the empty fireplace. Where am I?

I didn't have time to study or solve the room. I was on a mission. Exiting through a set of double doors, I was much relieved to find that it lead to a hallway. The burgundy carpet lead infinitely to the left and two doors to the right. Wherever I was, it was huge.

Figuring the right a dead end I headed towards the left, making sure to close the door noiselessly. I crept soft and swift past five more doors before I found a grand staircase leading down to a black and white tiled foyer. Encouraged by the seemingly empty corridors I ventured down, holding onto the gilded handrail. In any other situation I would have felt like a high society lady descending the staircase after an opera. Now I just felt like I was clutching the railing of a sinking Titanic.

I made it to the bottom without incident. Feeling giddy at my accomplishment, I was even more excited at the sight of a pair of double doors. Carved out of a dark, foreign wood they had to be at least ten-feet tall and inlaid with a silvery metal. Freedom! my mind screamed. Without caring I moved quickly towards the handles. A boom resounded through the air. Smashed piano keys and tenor vocal chords resonated:

_Qui dove il mare luccica e tira forte il vento_

_Su una vecchia terraxxa davanti al golfo di Surriento_

_Un uomo abbraccia una ragazza dopo che aveva pianto_

My heart stopped. My God…it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard. Beautiful isn't even the right word. It was…indefinable. The piano was low and mournful and so was the voice that accompanied it. It struck each word loud and clear with a sorrowful passion. I had to get closer. I had to hear more.

_Poi si schiarisce la voce e ricomincia il canto_

_Te voglio bene assaie ma tanto bene sai_

_É una catena ormai che scioglie il sangue dint'e vene sai_

It wasn't French. Which meant it left last night's kidnapper out of the picture. Was there someone else here? Maybe it was my real angel! The angel that hadn't kidnapped me. I followed the sound to a door just left of the exit. Had I really been that close all along? Approaching a set of dark, double doors (whoever built this house had a strange and romantic fixation with double doors) I peered through a small crack. I was spying on a music room. Shelves lined the walls with tidy music, bound in leather folders. Off to the right I caught a glimpse of sunlight peeking through some windows. And directly in front of me was a grand piano. A dark figure sat before it, thrusting his arms downwards and emitting a transfixing sound,

_Vide le luci in mezzo al mare pensó alle notti lá in America_

_Ma erano solo le lampare e la Bianca scia di un'elica_

_Sentí il dolore nella musica si also dal pianoforte_

I had to get closer to this beautiful, poignant sound. Wrapping my fingers around the door for support I leaned in as an ominous creak squeaked out my whereabouts. With an abrupt stop the music ceased and the creator turned sharply to look at me. With his face behind the shadows, I couldn't make out the expression. Even if it was friendly, I was petrified. What had I walked in on?

"Well, good morning," the figure stated dryly, "I didn't expect you to be so bold as to venture downstairs." My heart sank at his voice: it was the same one from last night. My angel really had kidnapped me. I considered running. Making a break for the door. Or just up to the room to brood over a new escape. But before my mind could send the signal to my feet, he had already gotten off the piano bench and crossed the room to stand right in front of me. "I thought I told you to stay in your room."

"And why exactly should I listen to you?" He laughed at my response in the way that one laughs at a cheeky little kid.

He pushed open the door so we now stood face-to-face. The visage that had been hiding earlier suddenly jumped into the spotlight. I took a step back, puzzled and startled at the mask covering the right side of his face, "Well let me see," his smile twisted itself up in the corners, "For one, I am the master of this house; two, I'm your teacher; three, I'm older than you; and four—this is my personal favorite—as of now, I control your life." I looked at him in shock: I'd never heard such harsh speech before. Nobody outside of books and movies spoke like that. And the mask certainly didn't help things. I didn't know what to say. What could I say? Oh, all right: when you put it that way it makes much more sense to obey a mask-wearing, black-clothed, callous-speaking angel. So I just stood there, with my arms crossed, trying not to look at his mask.

He sighed, "Come in," he stood to the side and gestured me into the room. I complied and breezed past him to stand in the middle of the room. I heard the door click softly behind me. Great. My first escape plan had been foiled by my obsession with whatever he had been singing. His firm steps came closer and closer to where I stood until they passed and doubled back to stand right in front of me. Holding my breath I cast my eyes downward: his close proximity made me uncomfortable. I was even more uncomfortable when he suddenly reached into my pocket and pulled out my escape toast.

Alarmed that he had come so close to touching me I threw my eyes upward to see him examining the napkin wrapped toast. He looked confused at first, but then a sudden understanding spread across his face like a rosy dawn.

" I see. The promise of escape lead you down here," he started to circle like a hawk that's sighted new prey, "but curiosity lead you to me." He stopped right behind me, as a shiver slithered from my head down to my stomach. "It was smart of you to bring provisions: my nearest neighbor is thirty-six miles away, and he doesn't believe in telephones or cars. By the time he could've offered you any help, I would have already found you." Swallowing the fear lodged in the back of my throat, I tried to stand as straight as I could. "I think now would be an excellent time to go over the rules with you," moving past me, he threw the napkin-wrapped toast, with a dull metallic ring, into a little waste bin near the foot of an ornate side table.

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_There it is! Please review harshly. Something doesn't feel right…so any suggestions/critiques are welcome! _

_-bn-_


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